Free Strangers by Carla Banks Page A

shadowed alleyways that protected the inhabitants from the relentless sun; the compound with its sharp-edged shadows cast by the buildings, the blinding reflections that enclosed the watcher in brightness, the dryness, like ashes, that the light left behind.
    And she didn’t know any more what she was seeing.

8
DESERT DEATHS
    Riyadh: Thirteen workers–mostly Africans–lost their way in the desert and died of thirst in the Taef region of Saudi Arabia. They are thought to have gone looking for work when their residency permits ran out.
(Reuters)
    Damien O’Neill leaned back in his chair. It tilted, and he stared at the ceiling, watching a lizard making its way across the cracked plaster. He was beginning to think that he might have a problem, a problem that centred on Joe Massey. He’d been concerned about Majid’s rather dismissive hostility when Massey’s name had been mentioned. Somehow, during his previous contract, Massey had managed to bring himself to the attention of the police.
    And now there was something else. As he walked home from work that evening, Damienhad passed one of the thriving internet cafés that had sprung up all over the city. And there, all his concentration focused on the screen in front of him, was Joe Massey. Damien had been sufficiently intrigued to stop and watch for a while, but Massey’s intent gaze hadn’t wavered as he keyed instructions into the machine, stared at whatever had appeared on the screen in response, scribbled down notes and keyed in more instructions.
    All the ex-pat houses were set up for internet access, and Massey would also have had a computer in his office at the hospital. But internet traffic was closely monitored in the Kingdom. Though ostensibly for people without their own internet connection, in practice the cafés were often used by those who had particular reasons for keeping their activities anonymous.
    These were troubled times. Westerners had been killed on the streets of the Kingdom, and Damien had an ex-pat community whose safety was his responsibility, as was their impact on the society they so imperfectly understood. If Massey was here with an agenda, then Damien wanted to know what it was. There was nothing he could do now though. He filed the problem for future consideration.
    The call for
Maghrib
, sunset prayer, brought him back to the present. He scribbled down some notes for the report he intended writing next day, then went downstairs to see what Rai had left in theway of food. As he walked through the shadowed spaces, the doorbell jangled, an intrusion from another place and another time. He heard the sound of a car pulling away.
    Damien paused. He didn’t live behind the layers of security that protected most Westerners. He knew he was taking some risks, but he also knew that, if he hid behind those kinds of shields, he would effectively exclude himself from Saudi society, declare himself to be irretrievably
other
. Whoever was calling had chosen a time when Rai wasn’t here, and when the streets outside were quiet. Risk? He spun the wheel in his head, then opened the door.
    There, in the long shadows cast by the high walls and the walkways that linked the buildings, was a slender, black-swathed figure. Her eyes, behind the concealing niqaab veil, were luminous as she slipped through the half-open door into the twilight of the hallway.
    ‘Amy!’ He didn’t know whether he was shocked or angry. Or just pleased. She shouldn’t have come here alone.
    ‘I wanted to see you,’ she said simply.
    ‘For Christ’s…’ His exasperation faded as she slipped off her abaya. She was wearing a simple blue dress. Her skin glowed in the shadows, and the brightness of her hair made the colours around her fade to monochrome. ‘Do you know what could happen if anyone saw you coming here?’
    ‘Of course I do. So I was careful. Please, Damien.Don’t let’s get angry with each other, not now. It’s been too long since I saw you.’ She rested her